


The Pull

by INMH



Series: trope-bingo Fanfiction Fills 2018 (1st Half) [14]
Category: The Alienist (TV), The Alienist - Caleb Carr
Genre: (more like a Love Quartet it's honestly kind of complicated), Angst, Canon - Book, Canon - TV, Drama, F/M, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-26 19:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13864494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: There’s something about Laszlo that attracts people to him, whether they like it or not. Blend of book and show canon.





	The Pull

**Author's Note:**

> This is honestly a shameless mix of book and show canon, because I like the show but I’m not overly fond of the amount of angst they shoved into it and, in particular, how they’ve handled Kreizler’s characterization.

John has known Laszlo for nearly twenty years; and he does not now, nor has he ever, claimed to truly understand him.  
  
He’s starting to suspect that no one will ever truly, completely understand the man, no matter how hard they try.  
  
(No matter how hard _he_ tries.)  
   
[---]  
   
Mary seems to think Sara has designs on Laszlo.  
  
John doesn’t know what to think.  
  
Sara is as unreadable as a statue, disinclined to showing her hand to others at the table, even to those she’s known for years, like John. But there’s a glimmer of something in her eye with Laszlo, and John can’t tell whether or not it’s the satisfaction of meeting someone who appreciates her ambition, or if it’s that that appreciation has led to Sara feeling something a bit deeper for his old friend.  
  
Laszlo, for his part, doesn’t seem to have any special interest in Sara, and John hasn’t seen him interact with Mary at length, so it’s impossible to know who, if anyone, Laszlo might genuinely be keen on.  
  
In any case, the greatest similarity between Laszlo and Sara is that he’s only ever known either of them to have had only a single romantic fling in their pasts; they don’t seek out seedy company in gambling halls and brothels, and they don’t flirt with anyone, so how is he to know, with any certainty, what either of them feels?  
  
John doesn’t know what to think.  
  
He only knows that it makes his stomach turn, and that alcohol and prostitutes are the only way to calm it.  
   
[---]  
   
He knows that Mary’s upset about Sara because of the Looks.  
  
John’s known Mary long enough to know when she’s upset- and really, the only way a woman who never talks can effectively communicate her emotions is by showing them plainly on her face, so she’s become pretty good at it, whether she ever meant to do so or not.  
  
Mary’s a flighty girl. When she sees John, she usually greets him with a smile, or at the very least some expression that says ‘oh, you’re a person I know and trust, alright then’; John has always felt a little puff of pride at that, knowing that he’s managed to earn Mary’s trust.  
  
But Sara, Sara gets the following: A dead-stop, like an animal spotting a hunter, then an expression of irritation shaded with subtle hints of hostility. And given the context of Sara and Laszlo’s professional relationship, they (and John, and the Isaacsons) are almost always in the middle of discussing the case, which Laszlo has made clear he wants Mary to have no part in. And besides, Laszlo’s tendency towards becoming absorbed in his work means that when Mary and Sara _are_ in a room together, Sara is more likely to be the focus of his attention.  
  
And Mary, it seems, does not like that at all.  
  
But then, neither does John.  
   
[---]  
   
John has known Laszlo since they were children.  
  
John and his brother may have come from a privileged home, but they’d scandalized their family by running with a group of children from the wrong side of town- boys that would make Stevie Taggart look like an angel. His parents had been only slightly mollified when, at- oh, twelve or thirteen- he’d met Laszlo, quite the stiff and serious child at some function and taken to him.  
  
“My name is Laszlo Kreizler,” Laszlo had introduced himself quite properly, accent obvious but his English impeccable, extending (what John would later learn was) his good arm to shake.  
  
“John Schuyler Moore,” John had responded with equal propriety, accepting Laszlo’s hand because their parents were watching and eschewing these rituals of high society wouldn’t end well for either of them. They sat together during dinner, in a little corner that was set slightly apart from their parents. Together as they were, it was nearly impossible to sit back and observe the goings-on of the adults, their fake laughter and snide remarks hidden in social niceties.  
  
“Geez!” John had burst out, unable to hold it back. “They’re all so _fake._ Put them in a locked room and give them bats and they’d all beat each other to death in under an hour.” He’d raised an eyebrow at Laszlo, bored and interested in prodding the other boy, and lowered his voice. “Hey, there’s a terrace upstairs- want to drop things on people as they leave?”  
  
After a beat, after a moment of stunned silence, Laszlo’s face had split into a wide, pleased grin.  
   
[---]  
   
Given their age-difference, John didn’t meet Sara until he was in his twenties and she, in her early teens.  
  
Sara’s eccentricities had been a little more obvious than Laszlo’s- but then, Laszlo had been rather reserved as a child and grown more so as he’d aged, whereas Sara seemed simply to have been born (or perhaps raised consistently) with her idiosyncrasies. She was outspoken, but retained a finely-honed sense of tact; she was more than capable of dropping the high-society act at the drop of a hat, but could play along with it for as long as she liked. At fourteen she could hold an intelligent conversation with John that did not involve banal conversation about the weather or gossip about others in their social circle. She’d always bee interested in his work with the _Times._  
  
After Julia broke their engagement, he’d been so drunk and he’d proposed to Sara and she’d driven him to the river just to throw him in it. The next day he’d regarded her sullenly, but apologized regardless for his conduct. She’d smiled at him in that sly way of hers and said that there was no trouble.  
  
“Just don’t do it again, John.”  
  
“I’ve no desire for another impromptu bath, Sara, I assure you.”  
  
She’d found it all funny, but didn’t rub salt into the wound, and John had appreciated that beyond anything else.  
   
[---]  
   
Sara and Kreizler clashed at the beginning, and that had caused John untold anxiety. Kreizler’s outburst and Sara’s resentment had put him firmly on Sara’s side- he’d had no business yelling at her like that- but he’d held that quiet grudge against Kreizler with reluctance, and had been relieved when his old friend had, in his own way, apologized to Sara for his behavior by validating her theory about the killer’s mother.  
  
And when Sara had come to him with that article about Kreizler’s family, about his father, about the surgeon who had tried to repair his arm, John had felt a terrible sense of foreboding about it all.  
  
“He can never know that we know this,” He’d said, and Sara had agreed, burning the article right then and there.  
  
_How well do I know him,_ John had thought, watching the paper blacken and curl in the heart of the fire, _If after all these years, as his closest friend, I didn’t know the truth about his arm?_  
  
But now there was a strange, new sort of kinship with Sara, one that had been forming since they’d started working together; now it was bound by a shared secret.  
   
[---]  
   
Now that he pays attention, John sees the depth of Mary’s affection for Laszlo.  
  
He sees the little looks, the hesitant motions, the little flush to her cheeks when he thanks her or smiles at her. He sees the edge of a small, bashful smile once she’s turned away to leave the room.  
  
_She’s smitten,_ John thinks, with a strange, sick twist to his gut.  
  
He watches Laszlo’s reactions to her, watches his facial expressions like a hawk to see if that affection is returned beyond Laszlo’s usual fondness for his friends. The results of this small investigation are inconclusive- maybe Laszlo doesn’t return the depth of Mary’s affections, or maybe he does and John’s simply not good at detecting this sort of thing, but he doesn’t see anything definitive.  
  
But somehow, that bothers him even more than if he’d seen them kiss.  
   
[---]  
   
What _does_ John know?  
  
John knows that his lungs burn with things, feelings, thoughts, unexpressed. He cannot bring himself to begrudge Mary, who is quite sweet and has always been pleasant to him, her crush; nor can he fault Sara, who unquestionably has difficulty finding a man who understands her passion for detective work, her desire to be a policewoman- assuming she even shares Mary’s feelings for Laszlo. He can understand, without fault, what it is about Laszlo that appeals to them.  
  
( _And you?_  
  
_What is it about him that appeals to **you?**_ )  
  
John’s answer to those insistent internal questions is a sort of quasi-denial, explaining it away with ‘friends come in all shapes and sizes’ and does not go any deeper than that.  
  
He can’t.  
  
Self-preservation, honed to a deadly-point from Julia’s betrayal, won’t allow it.  
   
[---]  
  
John is tormented by memories of boys hacked to pieces, by fleeting recollections of Julia’s voice and smell, and by troubling nightmares of gangsters in a drug-fueled haze and rough hands pawing at his pants.  
  
But there is a particular memory that’s been clawing at him lately:  
  
About a year ago, right before Julia had left him, John had developed a mild fever. He’d been at Laszlo’s home for a visit, and they’d been chatting for a few minutes when Laszlo had, abruptly, stepped away from the bookshelf and was suddenly in John’s personal space.  
  
His hand had been cool against John’s forehead and neck, pressing gently but firmly. “John,” he sighed, “You’re not well.” And then his hand had pressed against John’s cheek in something that was unquestionably far more intimate than usual social conventions permitted between men.  
  
And John had liked it.  
  
Oh, he’d explained it away later that it was just his overheated mind at fault; but the truth was that it was more than that, and it had been that way for a long, long time.  
  
Then Julia had left, and John had buried it with everything else.  
   
[---]  
   
Julia being in his life had distracted from him from other things.  
  
Things like the pleasure he took from Laszlo’s rare smiles, from the fact that of anyone in this world John knew him better than most (something that would become less of a fact with time), from the desire to spend time with Laszlo even though his friend could be ridiculously one-track minded about his pursuits, his passions.  
  
In a different world, John might have flirted with Laszlo, might have turned the charm on him and enticed him into his bed.  
  
But in this world, Laszlo is a friend and only a friend. For John to even broach the possibility that he may have romantic inclinations towards a man would be dangerous- less so to Laszlo than anyone else, but regardless, still dangerous- and it could potentially end their friendship. Speaking of it is simply not feasible.  
  
So John stuffs it, and the pressure of repressing it, and the pain of Julia, and the confusion and discomfort of two women being taken with Laszlo, and is all the more melancholy for it.  
   
[---]  
   
Now John’s starting to wonder if Sara is taken with _him_.  
  
She’s been giving him little looks, little smiles and warm little comments, and John damnably cannot tell if it’s simply her warming up to him over time as they work together or if, perhaps, what they have has taken a turn for the romantic.  
  
He certainly wouldn’t be _opposed_ to it; Sara’s a fine woman and he could easily see their affection become something stronger with time, with attention and care.  
  
But it’s all just too confusing. He has affection for Sara, and they both may have something for Laszlo, who could _possibly_ have something for Mary or Sara.  
  
Though not John.  
  
Probably not John.  
  
(It’s easier to think of it that way, because the odds of Laszlo returning any errant affection from his oldest friend are slimmer than their killer knocking on the door of their 808 Broadway apartment and sitting down for tea with them).  
  
So what does he do?  
  
Nurture a relationship with Sara and hope that Laszlo is utterly taken with Mary, or at least not interested in Sara romantically? Back away, and hope that Sara doesn’t take offense (assuming he’s reading her correctly at all)?  
  
He just doesn’t _know._  
   
[---]  
   
“You seem bothered.”  
  
John looks up, sees Laszlo looking at him curiously. They’re on the train to Washington, and John’s been staring out the window.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
John just barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes shut. But he doesn’t take the bait in that ‘hm’, that subtle jab at his honesty. “I’m tired.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
_Oh for God’s sake-_  
  
“If you have something to say, then just say it, Laszlo, I’m not in the mood.” John turns and looks out the window again, but sees Laszlo’s reflection still watching him. He sees dark eyes picking him apart, trying to divine the truth behind his very obvious lie, and it pains him that he can’t simply lay it all down and ask for Laszlo’s input.  
  
There’s a long pause, and finally Laszlo says, “You confound me, sometimes.”  
  
John cannot help but snort at that, and he turns his gaze back to meet Laszlo’s, saying, “Ah, yes, the pot calling the kettle black…” He trails off.  
  
Because now there is something recognizable in Laszlo’s eyes, something warm and pleasant that indicates fondness, affection… Perhaps not the kind that society would like to exist between two men. It’s enough to spark a tiny flame of hope in John’s traitorous heart, even when he knows it’s foolish at best and emotionally suicidal at worst to even entertain the possibility.  
  
John’s heart throbs with the ache of it all, and he can only shake his head.  
  
“And you confound me constantly, Laszlo,” he says, and turns away again.  
   
-End


End file.
